Midnight in Downton
by Peachdreamsandperseus
Summary: The lines between fiction and reality become blurred when an aspiring young writer wanders the haunted halls of the Abbey - a once luxurious country house hotel now fallen from grace - every night only to discover that the ghosts of the past are more real than anyone could ever have imagined. But what connection do the things he sees have to a missing socialite in his own era?
1. A Twist of Fate

_**I was inspired by the new John Lewis advert (watch it on YouTube - it's absolutely beautiful) and Midnight in Paris, hence this little brain child. Enjoy and let me know whether or not you think I should continue :) x**_

* * *

For about the fifth time in as many minutes, he fiddles with the knot of his tie. He feels claustrophobic, sitting here in this plush London office with people who are infinitely more suited to this job than he is – they all look so polished and perfect whilst he sits here in an ill-fitting suit and a borrowed tie. There's one particular young man who keeps eyeing him up like he's a piece of meat (or perhaps like something he stood in on the way here would be a more accurate description). He screams Oxbridge and his aftershave reeks of privilege – daddy no doubt has a connection to the big boss and all of this is just a formality.

For Tom Branson, this really is his last shot – if this doesn't work then he'll be forced into returning back home to Ireland with his tail between his legs and head hung in shame. His mother had warned him about leaving to study in England, but with the fragile state of the Irish economy, he'd known that his prospects would be much better across the sea. Now, five years later, here he is – twenty-three years old, unemployed, and about to be interviewed for a job which he had thought was for nothing more than a glorified assistant. There was nothing wrong with that of course – he has ambitions and everyone has to start somewhere. Sitting in this room however, he has a sickening feeling that there's something somebody isn't telling him. He wonders if it's too late to escape – he could feign illness, pretend there's a family emergency or...

"Mr Branson?"

Maybe not.

Swallowing hard, he picks up the folder containing his CV and ensures that his phone is switched off before following the red-haired PA down what feels like the world's longest corridor.

"You look nervous," she says – her accent is heavily Northern and he guesses at somewhere around Leeds. "Don't be... they won't bite."

He tries to return her reassuring smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. Taking a deep breath, he knocks gently on the door – "_This is it,_" he thinks to himself. "_The door to the last chance saloon_"

**_-xxx-_**

It all goes horribly wrong – or at least he thinks it has. His fiery Celtic temperament had threatened to make itself known when they'd asked him how he'd spent the last few years since graduating.

"_Odd jobs, mainly,_"_ he replies, knowing full well that they almost certainly already had the answer to this question. "I worked as a taxi driver in Liverpool, a barman and a mechanic, all whilst writing and trying to get my work published."_

_ Two of the members of the interview panel exchange a look. "And you find that sort of existence appealing, do you?" the woman sneers, looking down her nose at him. _

_ "Well... no. Not really," Tom replies sheepishly. "But one does what they must to make ends meet. I want to be a writer, it's my dream and I'll make it happen one day."_

_ "But would you not consider a different path if it wasn't working?" asks another man._

_ "And settle for second best? No... I don't think I should have to. Not if I believe that I truly have what it takes to succeed." _

_ "So this job isn't serious to you? It's a way of biding your time until something better comes along, is that it?"_

_ "Not exactly... I mean, no... I..."_

_ "I think that's everything, we'll be in touch."_

And that was how he came to be sat here – alone in a pub around the corner from the office, surrounded by city bankers, lawyers and the high fliers of British industry, drowning his sorrows in a pint of the black stuff having suddenly had a terrible craving for a taste of home.

"You look like somebody just ran over your dog," an unfamiliar voice calls out to him.

"I think I'd probably feel better than I do now if that were the case."

The man who had spoken to him takes a seat beside him at the bar and sighs wearily. "Well, if it's any consolation, your day can't possibly have been anywhere near as bad as mine."

Tom raises an eyebrow at his equally melancholy companion. "Sure about that?"

"I'll buy you a drink if yours is worse."

"Done."

**_-xxx-_**

The pair fall comfortably into conversation and they agree that their own circumstances are each as bad as the other's. The man – whose name he's learnt is Matthew – is a solicitor at one of London's top firms and has suffered at the hands of someone else's negligence and subsequently just lost litigation proceedings in relation to a multi-million pound contract.

"So you literally have nothing?" Matthew asks Tom as the topic of conversation returns to him.

Tom shrugs. "Well, I have enough to get by but I refuse to go back to Ireland just yet. If I do then I go without my pride and to lose that really would mean that I have nothing. Me mam was convinced that I was going to crawl back as soon as I started when I was eighteen with ten euro in my pocket and the realisation that it had all been a catastrophic mistake."

"What did you study?"

"History and politics at Liverpool."

"Ahh... yes, I know that city well. I did law at Manchester."

"Manchester?"

"You seem surprised."

Tom takes a swig of his pint and smiles. "You seem the Cambridge type."

Matthew shakes his head. "Maybe I could have been but things... well, they happen don't they? I stayed at home in the end."

"Life," Tom mutters. "What a bitch, eh?"

"I'll drink to that," Matthew replies, clinking his glass with Tom's.

It looked to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between the pair – they spoke of books, politics and their shared love of rugby (Tom was an avid Ulster fan whereas Matthew supported his local team, the Sale Sharks), discussing at length their excitement for the forthcoming Autumn Internationals and how their respective home teams had fared in the Six Nations earlier in the year.

"Do you play?" asks Tom, seeing it as the next logical question.

Matthew nods. "Fly half. You?"

"Fullback."

"Ahhh... Well, funnily enough my team's looking for some new blood. Are you free on Thursday evening?"

"I think so... unless I've run back home by then."

"Well give me your number and I'll text you the details. Come up for a trial if you're still around."

Tom sighs as he saves his number into Matthew's phone – "_This is a good thing_," he thinks to himself. "_It's about time you stopped playing hermit and actually went out and got yourself a life_."

**_-xxx-_**

The next few days are some of the luckiest Tom has known in years – the coach of Matthew's rugby team had been impressed with him from the very beginning and signed him up on the spot. However, this was by no means the best thing that had happened to him this week. Arriving back at his modest flat after his first training session, he listens to the messages left on his answering machine (he wouldn't have bothered with a landline if it hadn't been for his mother insisting on it, ranting about how international phone calls were expensive enough as it was and that be truly bankrupt if she had to ring his mobile all the time). Surprisingly, the message isn't from his mother – it's from someone in the Human Resources department.

He's got the job.

He breathes a sigh of relief and automatically dashes to his laptop, closing the Ryanair tab that has been mocking him for weeks – he will go home at some point, just not permanently. As the reality of the situation hits him at last, he quickly realises something, something that makes him feel sick with dread...

He's going to have to buy a better suit.

**_-xxx-_**

The Grantham Group is one of the world's leading luxury hotel chains and their resorts are known globally for their traditional approach to the industry. From rustic hunting lodges to grand country estates, the rich and famous flock to these idyllic retreats and, as such, publicity is essential - especially when premiership footballers and royals alike are paying hundreds of thousands of pounds to host their weddings and other lavish events. This is where Tom comes in – or rather Tom's boss does.

He's thrown in at the deep end almost as soon as he walks through the doors and whisked straight upstairs for a meeting with the man he has been employed to 'assist'. Charles Carson is a nice enough man, but he can be a little abrupt. He's a man who firmly believes in tradition and that things should be done 'just so'. At first though, Tom feels completely out of his depth, getting flustered as he tries to follow orders such as "_Call Lucy at Hello! Magazine and confirm the details for Viscount Conwy's son's christening_" and "_See that Trip Advisor update that review about Llantalfryn_."

"You'll get the hang of it," a voice whispers in his ear, a hand placing a steaming cup of tea down on his desk.

Tom looks up and sees the red-haired PA from the day of his interview, she's smiling at him in a way that radiates friendship, and he knows instinctively that she might just be one of the nicest people he's met in this place.

"I hope so," he replies. "Thanks for the tea by the way, err?"

"Gwen," she smiles. "You're part of the team now, which means we'll have to put you on the rota but seeing as it's your first day we'll let you off. Speaking of which, we're going to the pub after to celebrate."

"Celebrate what exactly?"

"You surviving it."

Tom checks his watch and laughs. "Aye, but it's only half past two. There's still two and a half hours in which I can spectacularly cock this up and they ask me never to come back. But I suppose if that happens then I could use the company while I drown my sorrows. Either way, I take it the first round's on me?"

"Them's the rules," Gwen grins as she returns to her own desk.

**_-xxx-_**

He does indeed survive his first day – and the next one, and the next until, before he knows it, September has given way to October and he's been with Grantham for just over a month. It hasn't really hit him as to exactly the kind of world he's living in until he overhears some office gossip one morning.

"Is that not illegal though?" one of the girls asks. "I mean... they're **cousins**."

"No... I don't think so anyway. They're like third cousins twice removed or something ridiculous. I think they share a great, great, great grandparent."

"Still wrong though."

"Who cares?" asks Gwen. "As long as they're happy then why should it matter? An' anyway, they look gorgeous together."

"**He's** gorgeous. If she won't have his babies then I will."

Gwen laughs. "Definitely wouldn't kick him out of my bed in the mornings."

"Who?" Tom asks, his curiosity getting the better of him at last.

"Mary Crawley's going out with her cousin... so the papers say anyway. The bloke's a bit of alright," Gwen tells him with a devilish smirk.

Tom furrows his brow. "Who's Mary Crawley?"

"You mean to say you've been here a month and you have no idea who Mary Crawley is?"

"Gossip columns and celebrity culture aren't really my thing," he tells them all – several of the girls visibly swooning over his accent and the way he says "_thing_".

"Mary Crawley is Robert Crawley's eldest daughter."

"As in the Robert Crawley who owns the Grantham Group?"

"One and the same. Anyway, she's a pretty big deal in the fashion industry, starting out as a model for her mother's label before studying at St Martin's."

"What are you, Wikipedia?" smirks Tom.

"Shut up," Gwen retorts. "Well, the media love her. So much more than her sisters anyway."

"Except Sybil, another interrupts. "But that's a whole saga in itself. Whatever happened to her?"

Gwen shrugs. "Nobody knows. She dropped out of Harvard last summer and hasn't been seen since. I don't even know if old man Grantham's still speaking to her."

Tom is about to ask another question when Carson's deep baritone voice interrupts him.

"Is there a public holiday that I'm not aware of?"

"No Mr Carson," the chorus, each of them darting back to their desks and returning to work.

"Good," he says. "Tom, I need you to go down to the Associated Press offices. Give my name at reception and they'll know what it's about."

Tom nods as he pulls on his coat, confused as to why the disappearance of the elusive Miss Sybil Crawley is already beginning to play at his mind.

**_-xxx-_**

"What do you mean the money's gone?"

"Exactly that... it's gone."

Robert Crawley presses his forehead against the windowpane and stares out across the London skyline – his wife is going to kill him. "How much are we talking about?"

"Almost all of it," replies his solicitor and long-time friend, George Murray. "The Canadian venture didn't work out as we anticipated."

Robert turns to face him again, eyes wide with surprise. "Canada? But that was a sound investment... Everyone was doing it."

Murray nods. "Yes, and **everyone** has lost their money. I'm sure you understand the legal implications of this."

"I can't afford to buy Glen Finnemore castle. Yes, I know."

"That's not all; you still have a number of outstanding debts. There's a chance some of them may issue proceedings against you. To do so would leave you bankrupt."

The colour drains from Robert's face and he's certain that his whole world has just collapsed in on itself.

"Bankrupt?"

"I'm afraid so.

"Can we fix it?"

Murray brushes a finger across his moustache and leans back in his chair. "Perhaps... but it would take a miracle."

"Then we look for that miracle. It has to be out there somewhere," Robert says, just about managing to stop himself going into a complete state of shock. "This company has been in my family for generations and I refuse to be the man who drops the torch and lets the flame go out. I will put this right even if it's the last thing I do on this earth."

"It's up to you if you want to take that risk and I wish you luck with it," replies Murray. "But there is something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"What?"

"I think I've found your daughter."

* * *

_**Next Chapter: **There's singing - a chorus of voices reciting the lyrics to a song his Nana used to sing to him as a small boy back in Ireland - and footsteps in the hallway behind him even though when he whips his head around he sees that he's completely alone. He's never really been one to believe in the supernatural, but that doesn't stop an icy chill shooting down his spine..._


	2. The Ghosts of Downton Abbey

_**Guys, thank you so much to those of you who have reviewed and put this on your follow/favourites list - it means the absolute world. I would have replied to those of you who did review, although I've barely left the library these past couple of days (postgraduate problems). So, here it is - chapter two. I'm sorry if it feels a little slow at the moment, but I think it's important just to set things up in the beginning. Enjoy and please let me know what you think - Reviews = motivation :) x**_

* * *

Mary Crawley twiddles her pencil between her fingers, staring vacantly at the blank page of her sketchbook. Looking up, the photograph pinned to the notice board above her desk in her study makes her heart ache with sadness – It's Christmas two years ago and she and her sisters are sitting around the fire of the Aspen ski lodge they'd spent the holidays at, drinking mulled cider and toasting marshmallows on the open flames. They looked happy – so genuinely happy – all three of them young, carefree and so blissfully oblivious to the heartbreak that the coming months would bring.

She looks into her youngest sister's smiling eyes and is suddenly hit by a wave of inspiration. She frantically begins to scribble – seemingly random lines come together if their own accord, the image jumping to life and becoming more precise as she inks in the finer details. The final touch is the colour – various shades of blue and turquoise green, a splash of silver and a hint of deep purple. After a couple of hours, she sits back and admires her work, aware that someone else has been watching her.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"A while," he replies. "I don't mind though... actually, I rather enjoy it. I find it fascinating."

"It's called Sybil," Mary smiles.

"It's beautiful."

"Just like she was."

"**Is**, Mary," he corrects. "She still is and she **will** come home."

"How do you know?"

He sighs and presses a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her shampoo. "Because you Crawley women are made of strong stuff... She'll be fine. She'll come back when she's ready."

"It's been a year since any of us last heard from her. I just hope you're right."

**_-xxx-_**

Their mission is simple – to assist in throwing the grandest party that this country has seen in years. A spectacular charity ball at Grantham's flagship hotel would be the perfect way to generate publicity and, unbeknown to his employees, Robert Crawley had vowed that if the whole thing failed and he lost everything then at least he would go out with a bang. It had all been his wife's idea actually and he'd had to laugh (or he'd probably cry otherwise) because that seemed to be her solution to everything. "_It's the American way_," Cora had told him, and then he'd kissed her and thanked his lucky stars that such a wonderful woman had found her way into his life.

Tom had admittedly been rather nervous when he was summoned to a meeting with the big boss himself.

"Branson, wasn't it?" he asks. "Tom?"

"Yes sir."

Robert smiles. "You haven't been with us long, have you?"

Tom shakes his head. "No, sir... just over a month."

"And do you miss Ireland?"

"A little," he admits. "But I haven't really lived there properly since I was eighteen."

"Well, you've made quite an impression here, that's for sure."

Tom shifts uncomfortably. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Quite the opposite, my dear chap," laughs Robert. "As you've probably heard, we're holding a grand soiree of sorts in early November. It has to be one for the record books, something that people are going to remember for many years to come. I need the best possible team working on this and I want **you** on that team."

"Me, sir?" he asks, stunned and a little confused as to what exactly is being asked of him.

"It's rather a different role to what you were employed to do, but we'll see that you're properly remunerated for your time and effort."

"Err... thank you."

"Is that a yes?"

Tom can't help but smile. "It is indeed, sir."

"Good, then I expect you to attend the briefing tomorrow evening. Miss Dawson will provide you with everything you need to know in the meantime."

Robert watches as the Irishman leaves his office and sees Carson passing him in the hallway.

"He seems a bright spark after poor old Taylor. Whatever happened to him?"

"I believe he owns a restaurant in York now," Carson replies as he recalls the last conversation he had with his former aide.

"Hmm... Well, I like this one. He's promising. Maybe he'll steal your job one day, eh Carson?"

"I hope that day is many years in the future, sir."

**_-xxx-_**

This whole day just keeps going from bad to worse. The rain is unrelenting as it hammers down from the heavens, flooding the streets and soaking to the skin through layers of clothing. The train out of London is delayed and, by the time they finally arrive in York, not even Gwen's usually cheery outlook on life can lift the group's sombre mood. The car gets stuck in traffic and all three of them are absolutely convinced they're driving round and round in circles when the scenery out of the window starts beginning to look exactly the same.

"We're here," says Alex – the Greek from accounts.

The Abbey is an old ancestral home located deep in the Yorkshire countryside – the seat of the Earls of Grantham fell out of their hands in the aftermath of the Second World War. It had been the eighth Earl who had clawed back the family fortune and turned the Abbey into a country house hotel – and thus the Grantham Group had been born. Now it seemed that things had come full circle at last and a downward spiral had well and truly begun. It is still a spectacular sight to behold, but the paintwork is chipped, the lavish carpets are threadbare in places and the exterior is crumbling as it fails to whether the test of time. However, to the untrained eye, it appears just as grand as it always was. It's eerily quiet though – for the jewel in a company's crown at least.

"Are we the only ones here?" Gwen asks as they check in.

The sharp suited Manc with the slicked back hair behind the desk nods. "Apart from you and the rest of the group sent up from London by Mr Crawley, we've got a wedding this weekend although none of them are here yet and a business conference starting midweek. After that... I'd say you probably are."

Alex and Tom raise their eyebrows at each other – this is going to be much harder to pull of than they thought.

**_-xxx-_**

He's absolutely exhausted and wants nothing more that to curl up in bed and get a good night's sleep after this nightmare of a day. He's going to have no such luck though because the general consensus seems to be that they're all going to head down to the local pub in the village in search of food and bond over a few pints.

As he wanders the deserted hallways looking for his room, Tom is almost certain that he hears the laughter of three young women on the staircase, brushing it off as probably just being the girls from housekeeping sharing a joke or something. However, the deeper he gets into the bowels of the Abbey, the stranger things start to become. There's singing – a chorus of voices reciting the words to a song his Nana used to sing to him when he was a small boy back in Ireland – and the unmistakable sound of footsteps even though he whips his head around and sees that he's completely alone. He's never really been one to believe in the supernatural, but that doesn't stop and icy chill shooting down his spine...

"Can I help you there?"

He almost drops his bag as he jumps in fright. "Jaysus!" he exclaims, turning to see a middle-aged woman dressed in black standing in front of him. "No... I'm fine, just looking for my room."

"You felt them, didn't you?" she asks and he notices that her accent is unmistakably Scottish. "The ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"Oh aye," she nods. "It's an old house, the place is riddled with them."

Tom scoffs. "I'm a bit old for ghost stories."

The woman smiles. "That's exactly what I thought before I came here."

**_-xxx-_**

His head is absolutely pounding by the time he finally returns back to his room. It's long gone midnight and the few quiet drinks had progressed into so much more, much to the delight of the landlord as it was the most trade he'd seen in months. He shivers as he slips of his jacket, feeling a draft coming from somewhere. Staggering slightly, he strides over to the window and runs a hand through the air, furrowing his brow when he doesn't feel anything.

"_The ghosts... this place is riddled with them_."

Knowing that he now has far too much energy to sleep, Tom settles cross-legged on the bed with his laptop and decides to indulge his curiosity. After a brief search, he comes across an amateur constructed website titled "_The ghosts of Downton Abbey_".

"_Since reopening its doors as a country house hotel in the mid-1950s, many visitors to the Abbey have reported paranormal encounters_."

"_Numerous spirits are said to haunt the halls of the seventeenth century estate, the most commonly encountered are believed to have deceased during the Great War and the years surrounding it – a period often referred to as the Curse of the House of Grantham_."

"_The Turkish diplomat who died in the bed of the sixth Earl's eldest daughter_..."

"_The footman who sacrificed his own life to save that of the future seventh Earl on the battlefields of Amiens..._"

"_The would-be-countess who perished at the hands of the Spanish Flu_..."

There's something about this that completely unnerves Tom – not because of the fact that this place is haunted, but because there's a possibility that somebody **died **in this very room. It brings back a number of unpleasant memories and he has to swallow hard to stop his emotions getting the better of him in his slightly intoxicated state. He'd been sixteen when his father had suddenly died – still a child himself the day he'd been forced to grow up and become a man for the sake of his family. With his three brothers already living their own lives and his mother slipping into a complete state of shock on account of her grief, it had fallen to Tom to care for his then six-year-old sister, Órlaith. His mother had refused to sleep in the bed she'd shared with her husband for over thirty years and that part of the house had always seemed so cold and uninviting after it happened. They'd moved six months later.

There was a reason that Tom Branson did not believe in ghosts and the reason is this: About a year after the loss of his father, he'd spiralled out of control. He'd gone off the rails in a way that was so uncharacteristic that, by the time any of them had seen it happening, it had been far too late to stop. It was as he'd lay there in a Dublin police cell, his face beaten and bloody almost beyond recognition that he'd wished with all his heart for a sight – a sign from his father that everything was going to be alright...

... And nothing came.

He had known then, in that moment, as a lonely, frightened seventeen year old boy that he was very much alone and that only he could fix it. In the end, he had done exactly that – he'd dragged himself away from the precipice and turned his life around, vowing to make something of himself and to become a man that his dear old Da would be proud of.

No, Tom Branson does not believe in ghosts. Maybe, just maybe though, the housekeeper would be right – after all, Downton has a habit of changing people in the strangest of ways.

* * *

_**Next Chapter: **He spies her standing alone in the corner, clutching a glass of champagne in her hands - she's the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he's ever seen in his entire life and it takes him a moment or two to realise that she's looking right at him, beckoning him over with a warm and inviting smile..._


	3. High Society

_**Once again, thank you so much for your reviews and stuff and I'm sorry I still haven't replied. I'm not sure about this chapter... I knew what I wanted to say but not how to say it. I'm thinking about including some chapters from Sybil's POV during the times Tom isn't around, what do you think? Anyway, here's the next chapter. Enjoy and please let me know what you think - Reviews = motivation :) x**_

* * *

She finds him in the Library Bar, a glass of Jameson in hand and staring at his laptop as though waiting for inspiration to come.

"Do you ever switch off?" she asks.

"Nope," he replies. "Not if I'm awake anyway. I don't see much point in just sitting around idly when I could be doing something productive."

Gwen shakes her head. "All work and no play..."

"I know, I know," he says. "It's not like I have anything else to keep myself occupied."

She moves to take a seat beside him, pouring herself a generous measure of whisky and adding a dash of lemonade.

"Doesn't your girlfriend get annoyed at you working all the time?"

"No," he replies, shaking his head. "Because I don't have a girlfriend."

"Boyfriend then?"

Tom laughs and swirls the amber liquid around the glass. "Definitely don't have one of those either. No, I haven't had a proper relationship since I was about twenty."

"What happened?"

"She broke my heart," he tells her. "There were a couple of others but nothing serious. You?"

Gwen shrugs. "I broke up with my boyfriend a few weeks ago. We've been together since we were sixteen but the whole long distance thing wasn't working."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," she says. "It's all in the past now. Time for a new start, don't you think?"

"Absolutely," Tom agrees and, the next thing he knows, Gwen's lips are crashing down on his. "Whoa!" he says, pushing her away. "What are you doing?"

She shakes her head and blushes furiously. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have... I just thought..."

"Look, Gwen... you're a crackin' lass but... God, I hate doing this," he sighs. "Just... not right now, yeah?"

Gwen runs a hand through her hair and laughs. "I'm sorry, I am... really. Look, I should be going to bed. I've kept you long enough."

He reaches out and catches her hand in his. "Stop apologising," he smiles, standing up so that he can kiss her cheek. "Goodnight, Gwen."

"Night, Tom."

He laughs to himself as he tops up his drink – if anything, he should be flattered. His teenage self would probably delight in the fact that women were practically throwing themselves at him, but he's a grown man now – a changed man – and he'd be a bit of an arse to lead her on like that. Maybe he'll ask her to go out to dinner one evening – not on a date as such, but as a friend. He likes Gwen, he genuinely does – just not in **that **way.

He's completely lost in his thoughts when he hears music drifting in from the hallway as the clock strikes midnight. It's a classical piece that reminds him of the string quartet that had played at his brother Éamon's wedding.

Knowing that he probably isn't going to get any work done, he downs the last of his whisky and shuts his laptop before going off to investigate.

**_-xxx-_**

The first thing that hits him is the smell – it's unmistakably that of Christmas, of fir trees and cinnamon. It's completely impossible though, what with it being October (saying that though, he did stand behind a woman buying a One Direction advent calendar in Asda the other week – he'd tutted quite loudly and she'd glared back at him). Then he sees it and he thinks he's going mad – an immaculately dressed young woman waltzes past him on the arm of an equally beautiful man – they aren't the only ones either. The whole thing is like a scene from a Victorian Christmas card and, although he knows it can't possibly be, it all seems so very real.

That's when he sees her – he spies her standing in the corner, clutching a glass of champagne in her hands - she's the most beautiful woman he's seen in his entire life and it takes him a moment to realise that she's looking right at him, beckoning him over with a warm and inviting smile.

"I wouldn't let my grandmother see you in such a state of undress," she smirks. "She'd faint at the sight."

Tom laughs and buttons up his waistcoat, fixing his collar having discarded his tie hours ago. "Well I wouldn't want to cause a stir now, would I?" he replies flirtatiously as he leans in towards her.

"Bit late for that," she smiles. "Why haven't I seen you before?"

"Oh, I... I'm not from round here," Tom tells her, starting to think that he means that in more ways than ones as he takes in her evening dress – a gown of blue silk and chiffon that matches her eyes – and the diamonds glittering around her throat and in her ears.

She cocks her head and looks at him curiously. "Tell me, what do you make of the current situation in Ireland?"

"I... err..."

"My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen... my honoured guests," a man he can't see calls, interrupting him and stopping him giving her an answer.

"I thank each and every one of you for coming to night and celebrating this age old tradition with us. May this year bless you with all the love and happiness you deserve. To nineteen-fourteen."

"To nineteen-fourteen!" the guests chorus, raising their glasses in a toast to the new year.

"Nineteen-fourteen?" Tom mutters under his breath. "But that's impossible."

His companion frowns. "Impossible? What's impossible?"

Tom shakes his head. "Nothing... it doesn't matter."

"But... if you tell me then I might be able to help.

He laughs almost bitterly, incredibly confused as to what exactly is going on. "I really don't think there's anything **you** can do to help." He regrets the words – well not what he said but rather the **way** he said it – the second they leave his mouth and the look on her face makes him feel like an absolute dick. "I'm sorry," he apologises. "I didn't mean for it to come out like that. I just... just give me **one **minute!"

He darts back towards the bar (or what he believes to be the bar) only to find himself standing in what is perhaps the most impressive library he's ever been in.

"Gone," he says to himself. "It's all gone."

"What's gone?"

He turns to look at her, not even realising that she'd followed, before taking several long strides towards her and placing his hands on her upper arms, looking straight into her eyes with absolute sincerity. "I need you to tell me something," he says. "Where am I and what year is it?"

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," replies Tom with a smile. "Please... just tell me."

"You're at Downton Abbey in Downton, North Yorkshire and it's nineteen-fourteen," she tells him. "You're strange," she adds. "And I'm not entirely certain that it's in a good way either."

"I've heard that before," he replies, running a hand across his face and turning his back on her. "This is impossible."

"So you keep saying."

"I'm sorry," he says. "But it's just not... I don't belong here."

"Neither do I," she replies, catching him completely off guard.

Tom turns to face her again, seeing that she's staring down at the floor. "What do you mean?"

She lifts her head and meets his eyes with a sad smile. "Can I tell you something? It's a secret though and you must promise not to tell anyone... they'll only laugh at me otherwise."

"I promise," he replies, not entirely sure what to make of this whole situation.

She sighs and begins to pull off her long gloves, draping them over the back of one of the plush red settees. "I don't fit in here either. I've known it ever since I was a little girl... but the one thing I've learnt is that you have to take what's given to you and make it your own."

"That's very wise," he smiles – she's completely misunderstood what he was getting at, but her words strike a chord within him and, deep down inside, he knows she's right. "How old are you?" he asks, suddenly struck by just how young she looks in the soft glow of the lamplight.

"A lady never reveals her age," she smirks mischievously before laughing out loud.

Tom quirks an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," she replies with a bright smile that warms his heart. "I was just thinking how scandalous it would be to be caught alone with a man I've only just met mere months before my debut season."

"Season?" he asks. "What are you, a piece of meat?"

"Do you know, that's perhaps the most accurate description of I've ever heard of the whole affair. They dress us up in all our finery and parade us around like cattle at a market in the hope of securing a perfect match. Would you think me silly and naive if I said that I'm only interested in marrying for love?"

Tom shakes his head. "No," he says sincerely. "Not at all... besides, where I'm from, that's usually how it's done."

"And where **are** you from exactly?"

"A very long way away."

She folds her arms across her chest, a small smile playing at her lips as she does so. "So enigmatic," she tells him. "But how is it that we've only just met and yet I feel like I've known you for years?" she laughs again before he can reply. "I'm sorry, I've probably been reading too many novels."

Tom chuckles and shakes his head. "I like a girl who reads."

"But I suppose like most men you think that it's not proper for a woman to read anything but the likes of Austen and the Bronte sisters."

"No... Why, what do you like to read?"

"History and politics mainly... I mean, I do have my favourite novels but I find the real world far more interesting. Although it does make one feel rather small in the grand scheme of things when you look at what some people have achieved."

"I suppose it does," Tom agrees. "So who is it exactly that doesn't approve of your preferred choices in literature?"

"Papa mostly," she tells him, the informality of this conversation beginning to show. "And Granny... one whiff of reform and she hears the rattle of the guillotine. I think they're both under the impression that my involvement in women's suffrage means that I'm going to end up chained to a railing in protest or arrested."

Tom laughs. "Have you read Mill's the Subjection of Women?" It's the first thing that pops into his head as he resists the temptation to tell her that women do indeed get the vote – but what was it they said on Doctor Who about timelines? "_Oh my God_," he thinks to himself. "_You're actually taking this seriously? It's a **dream**! None of this is real_..." he's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't even realise that she's speaking to him again.

"I haven't read it, no," she says. "And I'm hardly likely to find a copy in here."

"Too progressive?" he teases.

"Much too progressive," she giggles. She closes her eyes and smiles wistfully as she lets the music from outside wash over her. "Do you know, there is one thing I'm looking forward to about the season."

"Which is?"

"Dancing. I love to dance... even if some of my partners really are the most frightful prigs. Do you dance?"

"I'm shockingly bad at the waltz and that's about it," he says, recalling how his sister-in-law had insisted that the bridal party learn so as they could join in during the first dance at her wedding to his brother. He'd been partnered with one of the bridesmaids and he was convinced that he'd broken at least two of the poor girl's toes by the end of the evening.

She smiles and extends a hand towards him. "Well then, if you're shockingly bad then you should practise."

"Is that so?" he asks, stepping closer to her and taking her hand in his – a bolt of what feels like pure electricity shoots down his spine at her touch and, as her eyes widen in surprise, he's almost certain that she feels it too.

"I don't even know your name," she says as he leads her in a slow (and, despite his doubts, rather good) dance.

"Tom," he says quietly. They're standing so close that he can smell her perfume and feel her breath on his neck. "Not that it matters because I doubt you'll see me again after tonight."

"Why?" she asks, sounding almost disappointed.

"Because I'll go back to where I came from... hopefully," he replies. "_I'm going to wake up from this dream, still in this room but sitting at the bar with a whisky in hand having fallen asleep where I was working_."

"Then kiss me... before you go. Please."

He swallows hard and looks into her eyes – she's pleading with him and from the butterflies in his gut and the racing of his heart he knows that he wants it too. He smiles as her eyelids flutter closed as he leans down, his nose brushing against hers ever so gently...

"Sybil!"

She pulls away from him and jerks her head around to look at the door – there's nobody there but she can hear someone calling her name from the hallway.

"Sybil, are you in there?"

"It's my sister," she tells him, resting a hand lightly on his chest. "Hide over there until she's gone and then meet me down at the garage in fifteen minutes. Go down the servants staircase, out the back door and into the courtyard... turn left and follow the path round." She stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek before darting off in search of her sister.

**_-xxx-_**

He knows it's all a dream but there's no way that he's missing this chance – dream Tom is braver than real life Tom it seems. There's a part of him wishing with all his heart that it **was** real, that **she** was real.

He finds the garage easy enough, but stops dead in his tracks when he realises something...

There's an Aston Martin parked outside.

With a 2012 number plate.

"Sybil?" he whispers. "Sybil?!"

Nothing.

She's not here.

None of it is.

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and shivers in the late night breeze.

"What the fuck is going on?"

* * *

_**Next Chapter: **She flings her arms around his neck and pulls him into a crushing embrace, burying her face in his chest. "I thought they'd got you... I thought you were... oh thank God you're here."_


	4. As the World Falls Down

_**Thanks again for your continued support. Sorry if this chapter seems to jump around a bit, I wanted to try and show that time is moving much faster in Sybil's world than Tom's - a bit like Narnia I suppose. Anyway, I have an awful lot of Property Law to be getting on with so enjoy and please let me know what you think - Reviews = motivation :) x**_

* * *

"_It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live_."

The quote from his childhood is imprinted on his very soul. Like so many of his generation, his introduction to the realm of fantasy had come courtesy of the adventures of a boy wizard and his friends. When his father died, he lost himself in those books again as if trying to regain some of the youthful innocence he'd been forced to lose as he'd been thrown head first into adulthood. He'd known that he'd have to give up on some of the things that he'd dreamed of since he was a boy and start living the life of a man. Then, as he'd finally managed to pull himself back together again a year or so later, he realised that what he was doing wasn't living at all – it was existing. That was when he'd made the decision to go to England. He couldn't have stayed in Ireland – there were too many demons to outrun and bad memories to plague his sleep at night.

And so he had forged new dreams. Yes, he was still waiting for them to come true but he honestly had a feeling his luck was about to change. He finds himself dwelling on that quote again, the face of a his dream girl clouding his mind as he does so – she's all rosy cheeks and smiles and he can hear her laughing, pure and beautiful like nightingale song as he drifts out of the real world and back into hers.

"Tom... Tom!"

"What? Oh, err... sorry, I was miles away."

Alex frowns at him and plays with his pen. "Hmm, yes... we know," he says. "We were just saying that we don't think we can afford the renovations on the old drawing room if we don't sell the exclusive rights for press coverage to Ok."

"I'm trying, there's just a few things I we need to sort out with the guys on the legal team regarding the contracts and stuff. If it doesn't work out then it's really not the end of the world."

The rest of the table gawp at him, not quite able to comprehend what he's just said.

"I'm serious, we have other options."

"Like what?"

"Well..." he smiles to himself as he remembers her words. "Maybe we just have to take what's given to us and make it our own."

"So... we stop trying to modernise this place and embrace the past?"

"Exactly! Vintage is big right now... apparently."

"I've got it!" Exclaims Anna, the blonde from corporate hospitality. "A masked ball."

"I like it," Alex grins. "I like it a lot. And, if we follow through on this idea of Tom's then we can use the money we save elsewhere. I mean, there are still one or two bits of maintenance that need doing but that's to be expected."

Tom smiles at Alex as the accountant gives him a nod of approval, and reclines back in his chair with a mug of tea in hand and a rather smug smile on his face.

**_-xxx-_**

It's the rain hammering against the window that rouses her from her sleep. She hates mornings, always has done, and not even waking up in her boyfriend's warm embrace can make it better. They'd arrived incredibly late last night – it had been well after midnight when they'd finally made it up to the Abbey. Her father's bombshell had sent her into an absolute rage, and it had been down to her boyfriend to practically bundle her into the car after throwing a few essentials into a bag and make the long drive up north.

"Darling, what time is it?" she mumbles.

He rolls over and reaches for his watch. "Just after half ten... I think we've missed breakfast."

"My father owns this place, I'm sure they'd roam the countryside in search of unicorn steaks if we asked them to."

He can't help but laugh, finding the absolute rubbish that comes out of her mouth in the mornings rather endearing. "Is that what you want to eat?"

"No," she yawns. "Just some coffee and toast would be lovely."

"As my lady wishes," he smiles and kisses her quickly before climbing out of bed to go and find some food.

**_-xxx-_**

It's a small world – one that keeps getting infinitely smaller by the day as the two friends catch sight of each other.

"Tom!" Matthew calls out as he comes down the stairs. "It's good to see you again," he smiles. Matthew had spent the last few weeks working in New York and so they'd hardly seen each other since their last rugby match.

"You're back then?" Tom asks, slipping his phone back into his pocket having just been checking his emails. "Although I never expected to see you here."

Matthew nods. "We were coming up anyway but we decided that a few days earlier would do us both the world of good, my girlfriend and I that is."

Tom raises his eyebrows and smiles. "Ahh... so the mystery woman who has you whipped is here then?"

"I am **not** whipped!"

"So where is she now then?"

"In bed," he replies. "I've come down looking for breakfast... Oh, don't look at me like that!"

"I'm joking," Tom laughs. "Really, I am. I'm sure she's lovely and..."

"There you are!" an unfamiliar female voice calls. "I thought I'd come and join you. I'll never get anything productive done today if I stay up there."

Matthew takes her hand in his as she stands next to him on the stairs. "Tom, this is my girlfriend Mary. Mary, this is my friend Tom."

"Ahh, the rugby playing writer?" she says with a smile and holding out her fee hand to him which he shakes. "Nice to meet you."

"And you," Tom replies, suddenly realising where he's seen this woman before.

"Anyway, I think I left my sketchbook in the car. I'm just going to go and have a look," she says. "I'll see you in a minute."

Both men watches as she leaves through the front door, Tom eventually turning to Matthew and staring at him in utter disbelief.

"Mary Crawley? You're going out with Mary Crawley?!"

Matthew nods. "I've known her for years... we're incredibly distantly related. I mean, it's completely legal, I've checked. Anyway, it's not like you to be so knowledgeable about celebrity culture."

"I work for her father."

"Oh, of course... I forgot. So how is the party planning going?"

"It's a fecking disaster!"

**_-xxx-_**

**1914**

A disaster – this whole thing is an absolute disaster. She'd made an absolute fool of herself – or rather she'd been made to look like a fool by **him** – and her parents were no doubt incredibly disappointed in her. Realising that absolutely everyone in the room was staring at her, she'd made her exit as gracefully as one can when they're on the verge of tears and wearing a dress they can hardly breathe in, and had taken refuge in the garden where she'd finally allowed herself to cry.

"Lady Sybil?"

Great... this was the last thing she needed. "Go away," she says. "I don't want to see or speak to anyone."

He sighs and takes another couple of steps towards her. "I thought I'd come and see how you are. Everyone's worried about you."

Sybil laughs bitterly. "Having a laugh at my expense more like."

"Not at all... I saw what he did. I think most people did, actually. Your reaction was perfectly justified and you really should have heard the tongue-lashing he just got from your father."

"What?" she sniffs, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. "Papa defended me?"

"Of course he did," he says as he moves to stand beside her on the steps down onto the lawn. "Now, come on. The Sybil Crawley I know wouldn't be hiding out here when she has a point to prove... and besides, you promised me a dance which I still haven't had."

"Oh, Tom," she laughs, taking his hand and letting him help her to her feet. "Why do you always insist on trying to make me feel better?"

"Because I don't like seeing you upset," he confesses. "You have a beautiful smile and it makes me sad not to see it."

She blushes fiercely and thanks God it's dark out here. Tom Belasis is a charmer – she'd known this since the very first time they'd met at one of his father's shooting parties a few years ago and she'd been surprised to find herself reacquainted with him at his sister Imogen's ball – he'd made her laugh half way through their uncle's speech. He's matured into quite a handsome man – three years older than her with dark hair and bright green eyes the colour of emeralds. She remembers the last time she found herself alone with a man named Tom at a party and the thought makes her heart hurt – she hasn't seen or heard anything from him since that night in the library. She'd followed him down to the garage where he said he'd be but he'd vanished without a trace.

"Can... can I kiss you?"

She looks up into the other Tom's eyes and swallows hard – she knows that he would be a good match for her and she can't deny that she's attracted to him.

...And she can't cling on to a figment of her imagination forever.

"Yes."

**_-xxx-_**

**2012**

"Have you been here before?"

"Once or twice," Matthew replies. "Not for a while though. I needed to get Mary out of the city. I suppose that, working for Robert, you know about all the drama surrounding her youngest sister?"

Tom nods. "I know a little, but it really doesn't concern me so I try not to pry."

"Hmm... well, her father told her that his solicitor thinks he's managed to track her down. I don't think I've ever seen Mary that angry before."

"Angry? Why would she be angry?" asks Tom. "If it were my sister, I'd probably be over the moon about it."

"That's exactly what I thought," Matthew agrees. "But Mary blames her father for Sybil's disappearance. He'd always seen her actions as mere teenage rebellion but Mary knew it was something more. She can't really explain it, but the two of them were always close so it was probably instinct. Mary's incredibly perceptive and I don't mean to speak ill of the man but if Robert had paid a little bit more attention to his daughters than his bank account then maybe none of this would have happened."

"Just goes to show that money can't buy you everything," Tom says and sips his drink. "It makes me feel a bit better knowing that the rich and powerful have families that are just as fucked up as mine." He checks the time and, seeing that it's almost midnight, he begins to wonder if the same thing is going to happen again tonight.

"Penny for your thoughts," Matthew says, topping up their glasses.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go on... Unless it's for money and then the answer's no."

Tom laughs. "No, it's not that," he assures his friend. "It's just, when you've been up here before, have you ever experienced anything... odd?"

Matthew's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he smirks. "You mean the ghosts?"

"Yeah, but not just that... Alright, this is going to sound absolutely mad but last night I was sitting here and the next thing I know I'm at a ball in nineteen-fourteen."

"Nineteen-fourteen?"

"Like I said, it's mad."

Matthew contemplates this for a moment before shaking his head. "Look, you're under a lot of stress right now. I know from experience that dreams can feel more real when you're stressed."

Tom nods. "I suppose you're right," he replies but, deep down in his heart he knows that there's so much more to it than that. They fall into a comfortable silence, each mulling over the goings on in their own lives until the ringing of Tom's phone interrupts them.

"It's my brother," he says, frowning as he sees the name of the eldest of the Branson boys, Niall, flash up on the screen. Excusing himself, he darts out into the hall to take the call and has to sit down on the stairs when the shock of Niall's news hits home.

"Yeah... I... I'll be on the first flight back in the morning."

**_-xxx-_**

**1916**

She knows what's written in the letter before she's even opened it – her post rarely contains anything else these days and each letter may as well be written in the blood of those whose name it bears. She can hear her mother and father chatting about something or other, but all she can focus on is the piece of paper in her hands, seeing **his **name there in front of her eyes. Truth be told, this one hurts her more than most – he hadn't been just another acquaintance but a true and very dear friend.

"Sybil, darling?" her mother says, concerned by her daughter's silence and the unmistakable glistening of unshed tears in her eyes.

"Will you excuse me? I think I'll just..."

**_-xxx-_**

Her feet instinctively take her to that same spot she'd sought solace in ever since she was a child. With great – and rather unladylike – determination, she holds the letter between her teeth and begins to climb the tree that had seemed so colossal and imposing to her once upon a time. Nowadays, scaling it seems as easy as breathing. She'd fallen once – she'd been about ten and had broken her arm. Her father made her promise not to do it again but, Sybil being Sybil, she wasn't going to let it beat her. She'd kept on going, kept on climbing until she reached that higher branch. She'd got there in the end, and it's there she now sits as she tries to process everything that's just happened.

Tom Belasis.

Killed in action.

That's both of them now – both Tom's so cruelly snatched away from her. Several months earlier, she'd read about the Easter Rising over in Dublin – naturally, the only accounts she had been able to get her hands on were British ones but she wasn't so naive as to believe that this was the only side of the story. She'd thought of Tom again, as she so often did whenever she was expanding her political horizons, and had to assume that he'd returned to Ireland – and if he'd returned to Ireland then there was the possibility that he could have been in Dublin at that particular time. It was a morbid thought to have, but one thing war has taught her is that it's far better to have this outlook than to live in the hope that every young man she knows and cares for is going to come out of this alive.

And that's when she knows what she has to do.

She can't sit around anymore and just wait for the boys to come back home. Instead, she's going to find something that's going to make a difference – she's going to look for the higher branch and keep climbing until she reaches it.

**_-xxx-_**

**2012**

The last of those who had come to pay their respects finally leave just after five, leaving four of the five Branson children alone with nothing but their thoughts and each other for company – the wives and girlfriend of the three eldest busy themselves in the kitchen, giving the brothers some much needed space.

"So," Ciaran says at last. "What are we going to do about Órlaith?"

The four of them say nothing as they continue to stare blankly at the carpet.

"I'd take her but I'm going to Sydney next week for six months," Éamon says.

"We've got the baby coming soon," adds Ciaran. "And it would be unfair for her to be dragged out of school at a time like this to go down to Cork with Niall... Tom?"

Tom loos up and is about to reply when he sees their sister lingering in the doorway. "Órlaith!"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" she yells. "You're all sitting here talking about me like I'm a fucking dog that needs rehoming!"

"Oh, _a __stóirín_," Tom sighs. "That's not what we're doing at all!"

"Well it certainly feels that way!" With that, the teenager storms off upstairs, shutting herself in her room with a rather loud slam of the door.

"Well done lads," he says, disappearing into the kitchen to see if he can steal some of Aunt Nancy's chocolate cake and a cup of tea from his sisters-in-law.

**_-xxx-_**

He knocks on the door as best as one can whilst holding a plate and mug.

"Órlaith, it's Tom... please open the door."

It takes a moment or two for his sister to do as he's asked but she finally lets him into her room. Of all her brothers, Órlaith had always been closest to Tom – they even looked the most alike. Niall, Ciaran and Éamon all had their mother's dark auburn hair and the same brilliant blue eyes that all the Branson children had been blessed with, whereas Tom and Órlaith looked exactly like their father.

"What do you want?"

"Just to talk... I brought these," he says setting them down on her desk.

Órlaith smiles weakly. "Thanks... Oh, Tommy," she starts sobbing again and wraps her arms around her brother's waist and buries her head in his shirt. "What am I going to do?"

"Shhh..." he whispers, soothing her hair. "It's alright. We'll be alright... we always are, you and me."

She pulls back and flops down on the bed, shuffling over enough so as he can join her. "I feel like it was my fault," she says, running her fingers across the cast on her left arm. "I was in the car with her when we crashed. I could have done something..."

"Hey!" he interrupts. "Don't you ever think that... not for a single second. It was an accident and there was absolutely nothing **anyone** could have done to stop it." He reaches out and wipes away a smudge of mascara from her cheek and smiles. "Am I going to have to start chasing boys off with sticks now that you're getting yourself all dolled up?"

"I'm fourteen! All the girls at school are wearing make-up."

Tom laughs and, wrapping an arm around his little sister's shoulders, he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "You **are** going to be alright you know. I'll look after you," he says softly, slipping effortlessly into Gaelic.

"How can you promise that?" she asks in the same language. "Mam promised she would... so did Da and they're both dead!"

Tom sighs. "Just let me sort a couple of things out and you can come to London with me. It might take time, but if that's what you'd like then I'll do it."

Órlaith nods. "I would... I'd like that a lot," she smiles. "Tell me a story, Tom... a fairytale. Just until I fall asleep... It always did the trick when I was little."

And he does just that – he tells her a story of a boy who wanders the halls of a haunted mansion and meets a princess from a bygone era.

**_-xxx-_**

**1918**

The horrors of war that had once shocked and sickened her now form part of her everyday life. She can tend to those in her charge and no longer notice that one may be missing an arm or have severe facial disfigurements. Lady Sybil is long gone and, in her place, stands a strong and resilient nurse – a brave and determined young woman with a strong work ethic and a gentle hand. Since Downton became a convalescent home for wounded officers, she doesn't get to spend much time at the hospital anymore and, in all honesty, that does disappoint her a little bit but she supposes that helping out here is better than nothing – even her sisters have been doing her bit and if that doesn't constitute a small victory then she doesn't know what does.

She's carrying a large box of medical supplies down the stairs when she sees him. Her entire body freezes, her heart starts to race and she feels like she could burst into tears at any moment. Dropping the box on the floor, she runs towards him, not caring in the slightest that people seem to be staring at her.

He's here.

He's alive.

He's **real**.

She flings her arms around his neck and pulls him into a crushing embrace, burying her face in his chest. "I thought they'd got you... I thought you were... oh thank God you're here."

They both know that they don't have much time...

And they're determined to make each and every second count...

* * *

_**Next Chapter: **"Where are you from, Tom."_

_"I told you... a very long way away."_

_She sighs and shakes her head. "That's not what I mean..."  
_

_"Do you mean **when** am I from?"_

_She stares at him in amazement - it's all so wonderfully impossible but, at the same time, it makes perfect sense. "Yes."_


	5. Times Like These

_**Thank you all so much for your reviews and stuff on the previous chapter and, once again, I apologise if I haven't got back to you yet. Now that I'm finished with my M/M modern!AU (All's Fair in Love and Law), I'm giving this my undivided attention - it's not going to be a very long story at all, in fact there are only two more chapters and an epilogue left. This is a much shorter chapter because I'm exhausted and I think I've covered everything I need to. More soon, hopefully. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

He's absolutely exhausted by the time he arrives back at the Abbey. It had been an emotional few days and, as much as he had wanted to stay in Ireland with his family, he needs nothing more than to get back to normality. He'd picked such a late flight back so as to avoid his colleagues – they'd all know about his mother's death by now and, in all honesty, he just isn't in the mood to listen to yet more people offering their sympathies and words of condolence when it's all he's heard for days. His farewell to Órlaith at the airport had been understandably tearful, but he'd promised her that he'd stay true to his word and bring her to London when the time was right.

Just as he begins to climb the stairs up towards his room, the clock in the lobby strikes midnight. He wonders if one last little bit of escapism could be possible – perhaps if he lingers here just a little bit longer then he'll find himself back there with **her**. He would give anything just to feel her in his arms again, to hold her close while they dance and to hear her laugh and see her smile. If it doesn't happen then he'll know that it was all just a figment of his imagination and that Matthew was right about him being stressed afterall. If not and she is there... well, he'll deal with that if and when he comes to it.

**_-xxx-_**

He doesn't recognise her at first among the sea of grey and khaki coloured uniforms. She looks different somehow – she's older, wiser and it's clear from the look on her face that she's seen things that will scar her very soul for the rest of her days. He smiles back at her when she finally notices him and, the next thing he knows, she's pulling him into a crushing embrace.

"I thought they'd got you," she whispers in his ear. "I thought you were... Oh thank God you're here!"

He chuckles as he holds her close to him. "It's only been a few days since I last saw you."

Sybil pulls away and looks up at him quizzically. "It's been four years!"

"What?"

"I danced with you at a ball in nineteen-fourteen... It's now nineteen-eighteen and what with everything that's happened since then I have been **so** worried about you."

He swallows hard as the full force of what's happening hits him like a ton of bricks. If it truly is nineteen-eighteen then so much has happened in such a short space of time – the world is at war and it's going to change everything.

"I didn't know if you'd enlisted, been conscripted or if you'd gone back to Ireland..." she looks away from him as she fights her tears. "I thought you were in Dublin when..."

"The Rising," he mutters – the War of Independence was something he was particularly interested in and had formed the subject of his dissertation during his final year at University. "You heard about that?"

Sybil nods. "From a British perspective, obviously."

Tom cringes – the sources he'd managed to get his hands on that had been written by English journalists had made his blood boil. He'd known from the old stories and the diary of a great-great-great uncle or someone that the events of that week had torn his family apart, and the blood of the Branson's had been spilled in every battle in the fight for his country's freedom.

"I wasn't there, no," he tells her.

"Do you want to know something else?"

"What?"

"I even found myself questioning whether or not you were even real," she laughs nervously. "it's quite mad really."

Tom smiles. "Not that mad. I've found myself thinking the exact same thing."

"Where are you from, Tom?" she asks – a million questions race through her mind and she thinks it's about time she got some answers.

"I told you... a very long way away."

She sighs and shakes her head. "That's not what I mean..."

"Do you mean **when** am I from?"

She stares at him in amazement – it's all so wonderfully impossible but, at the same time, it makes perfect sense.

"Yes."

He takes her hand in his and pulls her towards the door. "Come with me," he says. "People are starting to stare and I really think you should be sitting down to hear this."

**_-xxx-_**

She takes him to that same tree down by the lake where she's come to hide from the world ever since before she can remember. They sit there for what seems like hours as he tells her everything. Much to his amazement, she doesn't run away or proclaim him a madman. In fact, she's the one who ends up shocking him.

"I... I've seen it too. The things you speak of, seeing a world that's not your own. I've seen it."

Tom stares at her – he honestly doesn't know whether or not this should make him feel better or worse about the whole situation.

"When did you see it?" he asks. "Where did you go?"

"It was about two years before you first came here. It was the night we'd learnt about what had happened to the Titanic," she tells him. "My cousin, Papa's heir, was on board and nobody was quite sure what it meant for the family now that there was nobody to take the title. My eldest sister wouldn't be allowed to inherit it seeing as it only passes through the male line which, personally, I find to be terribly archaic..."

"Title?"

Sybil chews her lip, realising that she's simply just **assumed** that he was aware of who she was and what living at Downton entailed.

"My parents are the Earl and Countess of Grantham."

"So that makes you?"

"**Lady** Sybil."

"Wow."

"It's really not that impressive," she says with a smirk, running her fingers through the blades of grass. "In fact, I think one of the reasons why I enjoy being a nurse so much is that I don't feel like a Lady. I'm not treated any differently from the farmer's daughters and shop girls that I trained with in York. It sounds utterly selfish, but it's the truth."

Tom smiles at her. "It isn't selfish at all," he says. "You've found a little bit of freedom and you're doing something good at the same time. But you never did say where you ended up."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologises. "I got distracted. As I was saying, that night I was sitting in the library just after midnight when I heard someone singing. Thinking that everyone was already n bed, I went to see who it was..."

"And?"

Sybil furrows her brow as though she's struggling to find the words to adequately describe what she had seen.

"I saw a girl," she says. "She was dressed in a very peculiar way but I liked what she was wearing. I could tell that she was sad. She saw me from across the room and looked at me as though she'd seen a ghost. We looked so alike and that's what made me doubt that she was real."

"Did you speak to her?"

"No," she replies, shaking her head. "I was going to, but then a man who I assumed to be her father appeared and they had the most horrendous argument. The next thing I knew, I was back here."

Tom nods and, without even thinking, takes hold of her hand. "It feels so very real though, doesn't it?" he asks, unsure what he's actually referring to.

Sybil looks down and smiles at how natural the sight of their intertwined fingers is.

"Yes," she replies in little more than a whisper. He's so close now that she can feel his breath tickling her face and she's reminded of that night in the library. "But I'm scared that, either way, whether it's real or not, that you're going to disappear or that I'll wake up and I never see you again. I'm scared about what's going to happen to me when the war ends. I know that it's going to be a blessing for all this to finally be over but I know that, when it is, everything will go back to the way it was before, but **I **can't... I can't go back to that old life and I'm scared because I never speak of my feelings to anyone but there's something about you that I..."

His lips are on hers in an instant and she sighs into his kiss, releasing her hold on his hand and bringing her arms up around his neck. She gladly welcomes his tongue into her mouth and smiles as she hears him groan in satisfaction, pulling her closer to him as though he's afraid she'll vanish if he lets go. They finally break apart, breathless and smiling as their hands find each other's again. Tom kisses Sybil's nose and rests his forehead against hers.

"You are magnificent, milady," he smiles. "And don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

**_-xxx-_**

**2012**

The rain hammers against the windows of her modest Parisian apartment and she's caught in that blissful state between sleep and consciousness, aware of little else but the warm weight of her boyfriend's arm around her waist and the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps.

A loud bang on the front door sees them both suddenly wide awake and sitting bolt upright in bed.

"What was that?" she whispers groggily.

"I think there's someone at the door."

She groans as she looks over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. "But it's twenty past three in the morning!"

"I'll go," he says, pulling on his t-shirt and climbing out of bed. "Wait here."

Yawning, Evelyn Napier pads down the narrow hallway and mentally curses whoever it is that has woken them at such an ungodly hour. All is soon forgiven as he takes in the sight of the bedraggled state of a girl standing on the doorstep.

"Edith!" he shouts. "I think it's for you."

* * *

_**Next Chapter: **He runs a hand through his hair and sighs as he studies the family tree of the House of Grantham - what he's seeing on the page before him is like a knife through his heart and never once has he found himself questioning his own sanity as much he finds himself doing in this moment..._

_He's in love with a woman who has been dead for over thirty years._


	6. Once Upon a Dream

_**Really unsure how I feel about this chapter - a 1900s Sybil without a 1900s Tom is really hard to write. You will, in the next chapter (which happens to be the last), find out why there isn't a 1900s Tom and I hope it makes sense. For now though, here's the latest instalment - minor spoilers for a major event in 3x03 but I couldn't help it. Please let me know what you think - Enjoy :) x**_

* * *

**1919**

She can hardly believe what she's hearing as she passes the library on her way upstairs to change for dinner – normally Sybil isn't one for eavesdropping but the conversation her parents are having is one that she can't help but listen in on.

"I hear the Grays are at Lisworth Park again for Christmas," her mother says. "It's been so long since we last saw them.2

"Sybil's ball, I think it was," her father agrees. "He and I have written often, but it would be nice to see them again I suppose."

"We should invite them to the ball in the New Year... if it happens that is."

Sybil's heart feels heavy at this – a dark cloud hangs over Downton as her father's valet and dear friend sits in a prison cell awaiting trial for a murder everyone is convinced he didn't commit. With the trial starting in York in just a few days time, the family had thought it best to decline her aunt's invitation of joining her in London and, truth be told, spending some time with her family is something of a godsend after the hustle and bustle of the war years and having spent the past few Christmases sharing their home with convalescing soldiers, even if she does find herself pining for the days when she had a purpose.

"Their son survived the war, you know," her father continues. "So I suspect we can expect a wedding invitation some time soon."

"Laurence?"

Sybil cringes at the sound of that insufferable prig's name – she can't help but wonder why any woman in her right mind would ever willingly marry Larry Grey .

"They called it off over the summer," her mother says.

"_Good_," Sybil thinks to herself. "_She obviously came to her senses._"

"You know, he was always very fond of Sybil."

"Don't," her father warns, obviously seeing where his wife's chain of thought is taking her. "Do you not remember what happened at her ball?"

"I know," replies the Countess. "But they were little more than children back then. War changes people, darling. You only have to look at your own family to see that. It's high time the girls were settled."

The Earl sighs as he admits defeat. "Alright, invite them," he says. "Although I can't say I approve of your matchmaking."

Sybil decides she's heard enough and practically runs upstairs to her room. "_I knew this would happen_," she thinks to herself as she studies her reflection in the mirror. She had always known that there would be people, her parents included, that would want nothing more than to go back to the way things were before the war. She knows that, if they get their way, then she will lose what little control she still has over her own life once and for all. She can't go back to being that girl again – the doting society daughter who waltzes through the ballrooms of Belgravia dressed to the nines in all her finery in search of a good husband. That girl is long gone and in her place is a woman who has seen and done far too much to ever go back to that old life. She watches as her long dark hair tumbles down in thick waves as she pulls out the many pins holding the intricate style in place. It doesn't take long for her to make her decision. It's a small and somewhat meaningless action, but at least it's something that she herself has power over. Reaching for the magazine she'd pilfered from her sister several days earlier and the scissors she kept in the bottom draw of her dressing table, she grabs hold of a fistful of hair and begins to cut.

**_-xxx-_**

**2012**

**From: **Órlaith Branson (o_branson98 )  
**To: **Tom Branson (bransont )  
**Subject: **A Novel Idea

I've been thinking – that story you told me about the man in the house, you really should write it. You've got talent, Tom... use it.

Missing you always

Órlaith xxx

**From: **Tom Branson (bransont )  
**To: **Órlaith Branson (o_branson98 )  
**Re: **A Novel Idea

Ahh, you flatter me a stóirín... but I'm a journalist, not a novelist.

I miss you too

Tom x

**From: **Órlaith Branson (o_branson98 )  
**To: **Tom Branson (bransont )  
**Re: **A Novel Idea

Really? Because I thought you were just a glorified skivvy :P

**From: **Tom Branson (bransont )  
**To: **Órlaith Branson (o_branson98 )  
**Re: **A Novel Idea

We're not friends anymore.

**From: **Órlaith Branson (o_branson98 )  
**To: **Tom Branson (bransont )  
**Re: **A Novel Idea

Love you too.

Tom laughs out loud and shakes his head – he's glad that Órlaith seems to be getting back to her old self. Like him, the girl isn't one to dwell on the past for too long no matter how much grief she may be feeling. She has their mother's strength, their father's warm and loving heart and he just knows that she going to be alright. He'll keep his promise – he'll take her under his wing and she'll thrive and grow into a remarkable young woman. Sitting back in his chair and nibbling on his pen, he wonders if his sister is right – maybe he could pull this off. It's completely different to what he's used to, but he's not afraid of a challenge. Before he can give it a second thought, he's already Googling tutorials on how to write a novel and it isn't long before he's got at least three characters and a basic plot scribbled down on a piece of paper. Lady Louisa Metcalfe is **his** Lady Sybil immortalised in the written word and Toby Jenkins isn't him as such, but the man he wishes he could be...

A man who is the perfect blend of Órlaith and his father.

"I didn't have you down as being much of novelist," Gwen says as she finds him working in the old drawing room.

"Nor did I," he laughs. "But my little sister is incredibly persuasive."

"What's it about?"

"I don't know yet," he replies. "Well, not entirely. Órlaith thinks I have some kind of gift... a talent that I'm wasting."

Gwen smiles. "Well, I expect a mention in the acknowledgements for all the cups of tea I've ever made you. Now, come on Shakespeare, we're all going to the pub."

"Shakespeare wrote plays, not novels."

"Whatever."

**_-xxx-_**

**1920**

Alright, she admits it.

Larry Grey is a changed man.

That still doesn't mean she likes him though – she'll make polite conversation with him and dance with him when he asks, but that's about it.

"Sybil, dear," her grandmother says. "Can't you do something about your hair? You look like an Amazonian woman... it's positively wild."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she replies. "The Amazons were remarkable women. An entire culture that thrived without the need for men to tell them how to govern their lives... I think we could learn a thing or two from them. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need some air."

Stunned by her granddaughter's retort, the Dowager Countess purses her lips as she turns to her daughter-in-law sitting beside her.

"That girl needs a husband," she says. "Young men are in short supply these days and if we don't move quickly then all the good ones will be gone."

"I quite agree," replies the Countess. "You know Sybil as well as I do and I fear that she's so much like her sister... she'd never marry anyone we threw at her."

"My dear," the Dowager replies. "None of us really know Sybil... and that is perhaps the thing that worries me most."

She steps outside, shivering in the freezing January air and smiles as she watches the flurry of snow falling around her. As much as this life frustrates her sometimes, even she has to admit that there's nothing more beautiful than Downton in a snowstorm.

She's suddenly enveloped by warmth as a jacket is draped over her shoulders. At first, she thinks that it belongs to her cousin, but then she remembers that he'd been rather preoccupied dancing with her sister – oh, when were those two going to admit the truth and just be together like they were destined. If it isn't him then she knows who it is and suddenly she finds herself contemplating whether frostbite would be a more preferable option.

"It's a beautiful night," he says. "But one which pales in comparison to your beauty."

Sybil smiles awkwardly. "You flatter me, Mr Grey."

"Oh really, Sybil," he chuckles. "I thought we were on first name basis a long time ago."

"We were," she agrees. "Before you lied to me in an attempt to seduce me and make me look like a fool at my own ball when your fiancée arrived unannounced."

"Hettie and I have long since ended things," he continues, moving to stand in front of her and running a frozen finger down her cheek. "I realised my mistakes. I realised that it was you I wanted all along."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"I like a challenge," he says. "There are some who say that I'm mad to try to attempt to tame such a free spirit but, given time, I think you'll make a wonderful wife and we can forget all about this silly suffragette nonsense."

Sybil pulls back from him and stares at him in utter disgust. "How dare you!" she says. "How dare you treat me like some prize to be won or some sort of experiment. I can't even believe you'd have the audacity to even **assume **that you could ever be the kind of man I'd want to marry. I shouldn't have to marry a man who expects me to change who I am for him and if that means that I'm destined to be a spinster for the rest of my days then so be it." She yanks his jacket off her shoulders and practically throws it back in his face. "Good evening, Mr Grey," she says haughtily before heading back towards the house, turning to him one last time just to deal her final blow. "Oh and, one more thing," she says. "It still is and always will be **Lady **Sybil to you!"

And, just like that, she realises that while she may not **need **a man in her life, she's absolutely certain that she's in love with one who isn't born for another seventy years.

**_-xxx-_**

He won't see her tonight.

It's close to two in the morning when they finally arrive back from the pub and all he wants to do is to crawl into bed and sleep for the next few days. His mind, however, seems to have other ideas. He can't explain why he's doing it, but he finds himself searching the internet for a family tree of the House of Grantham.

_Grantham Group_

"_My parents are the Earl and Countess of Grantham_."

Impossible.

Completely impossible.

At first glance, the same names appear over and over again across the generations like some sort of family tradition – there are Roberts and Marys, Violets, Ediths, Patricks and James'.

And, of course, Sybils.

He traces the line back – the Robert Crawley that he works for is the grandson of the youngest son of the seventh earl. The seventh earl married the eldest daughter of the sixth earl.

"_Christ this is complicated_," he thinks to himself and scratches his head. "_And is that even legal_?"

And that's when he finds her. The youngest sister of the seventh earl's wife.

_Sybil  
**b.** 1898  
**d.** 1978_

What he's seeing on the page before him is like a knife through his heart and never once has he ever found himself questioning his own sanity as much as he's doing in this moment...

He's in love with a woman who has been dead for over thirty years.

**_-xxx-_**

**1920**

"You're sad," he says to her as she cuddles up to his chest, her fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt.

She nods and feels ever so slightly better when he kisses the top of her head. She had never been so happy to see him. Today his presence is a welcome reprieve from the heartache she feels inside the house.

"She's so hurt," she mutters, fighting against the tears that threaten to spill again. "I just can't believe he did that... at the altar of all places!"

He says nothing, just sits there and listens as she pours her heart out to him.

"I like your hair," he smiles after several moments of silence. "I've been meaning to tell you but we've been otherwise occupied."

She runs a hand through her newer, shorter style and laughs. "I did it at Christmas," she tells him. "It caused quite the scandal."

"I bet it did."

Giggling, she leans up and kisses him before getting an idea. He whimpers slightly at the loss of contact as she pulls away and gets to her feet. "When I was younger, we used to go swimming in this lake all the time during the summer months. Our parents put a stop to it as we got older though... they said that it wasn't appropriate behaviour for young Ladies."

Tom cocks and eyebrow and leans back against the tree – **their **tree – unable to suppress his grin. "Something tells me you don't really care about what's deemed appropriate behaviour."

"Absolutely not," she smiles and, loosening the fastenings of her dress, lets the lilac and white lace material fall to the floor and pool at her feet. "Because life would be awfully boring otherwise."

Tom's jaw drops – in her chemise and stockings, she's wearing considerably more modest clothing than about ninety-percent of the girls he had encountered on nights out in Liverpool during his university days, but there's just something about this entire scenario that he finds incredibly... erotic. The way she stands there in front of him, so bold and empowered – a woman so very ahead of her time – makes him feel as though his heart is about to burst from the sheer amount of love it holds for her. It may have only been a matter of days in his world but, deep down inside, it feels as though he's known her for the six years it's been for her.

The next thing she does astounds him further – pulling off her stockings, she discards them in a pile alongside her dress and plunges into the lake with an excitable scream.

"Well, are you coming?"

"_I will be in a minute if you carry on like this!_" he thinks to himself and, pushing all (alright, **most**) of the vulgarity out of his mind, he strips down to his boxers and joins her in the water.

"Fuck, it's cold!" The expletive leaves his mouth before he can even think about stopping it.

Sybil giggles and swims towards him. "You'll get used to it," she says, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist almost instinctively.

"I'm sure I will," he grins and it isn't long before they're kissing again. "_What happened to you_?" he thinks to himself. "_What kind of life did you have in nineteen-seventy-eight? Were you happy? Were you loved? Because you are now... so very much_."

Sybil's thoughts too are absolutely racing. She knows where this is going – she knows where she **wants** it to go – and nothing has ever felt more right. "_Control your own life, Sybil... know what it is like to love and be loved in return. Know what it is like to **live**." _She sighs his name as she pushes his sopping wet hair out of his eyes and moves his hand to rest upon her breast, right over her heart. "Please," she whispers.

Pulling back from her slightly, he searches her face for any sign of doubt or uncertainty. Finding none, he kisses her tenderly, lovingly, and somehow manages to pull the chemise up over her head and toss it behind him onto the grass with the rest of their clothing.

He knows what she's asking of him and he knows that they probably shouldn't, but he's fallen under her spell and he's powerless to stop it. He loves her with every fibre of his being and he wants nothing more than to show her just how much she means to him.

**_-xxx-_**

Basking in the warm summer sunlight with a beautiful woman sleeping in his arms, Tom hasn't felt this happy or content in such a long time. Smiling, he runs a finger across her cheek and takes a moment to appreciate the length of her bare legs and how wonderful his shirt looks on her, recalling how the supple flesh it covered had writhed underneath him and her moans of pleasure had sounded like music to his ears.

She wriggles in his arms as she starts to wake up, stretching her limbs to try and alleviate some of the aches in her muscles caused by their earlier activities.

"Hmm... hello," she smiles. "This is nice."

"Very nice," he agrees before kissing her softly.

She grows pensive for a moment after they pull apart and looks straight into his eyes with absolute sincerity. "Have you... I mean... have you done that with many women?"

With a sigh, he nods – he can't exactly lie to her now. "There have been... a few," he says. "Things are different in my time though. It's far more socially acceptable."

"What about for women?"

"For women too."

Sybil looks at him and smiles. "I think I'd like that... being able to do **this** without shame or being led to believe that it was nothing more than a wifely duty because that isn't how it felt at all. It was actually quite wonderful... for the most part." She squeals with delight as he catches her off guard and rolls on top of her again, lavishing her neck and jaw with open-mouthed kisses. "Tom," she protests. "Tom we can't. I want to... God, I want to so much... but I have to get back to change for dinner."

"Well in that case then," he smirks. "I'm going to need my shirt back."

* * *

_**Next Chapter: **"Find the sad girl, Tom," she sobs. "The one I saw all those years ago. Find her if you can and make her happy. Please... for me."_


End file.
